


Legolas Discovered

by Fadesintothewest



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, My Slashy Valentine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 13:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22711801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: Legolas was thought dead as a babe, but he wasn't, but due to a tragedy of decisions, he was sent away as an orphan, and raised in Rivendell. This is the telling of that story.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25
Collections: 2020 My Slashy Valentine





	Legolas Discovered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arvalier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvalier/gifts).



> Story written for My Slashy Valentine. I hope you enjoy. request i received below. 
> 
> Story elements = The Queen of Mirkwood died from her wounds after giving birth to a stillborn child. Having not the heart to watch the king succumb to grief and despair from losing not just his beloved but his only heir too, the royal midwife precipitately switched the dead baby with her newborn nephew whose mother also just died in childbirth, thinking by doing so, she would save the king and Mirkwood's future.
> 
> Only after the rash act was done, the unthinkable happened. The supposedly dead child drew breath and was alive by the grace of Valar. Fear for her life and her nephew's fate consumed the midwife, driving her to commit even greater sin. She sent the baby as unclaimed orphan to Imladris. And thus Legolas was raised.Based on this premise, please write a story in which Legolas has a difficult, gruelling, frugal life as a commoner who serves the House of Elrond. A youth who works hard, studies hard, trains hard in order to rise above his state of poverty and deprivation and become a noteworthy figure.

The elves of Taur-nu-Fuin, the Forest under Nightshade, known as Mirkwood by the edain, were busily tending to matters of everyday life. It was deep into the winter in Mirkwood, on the other side of the longest night. The snows still covered the ground, the birches slumbering under the deep snow. The evergreens took the season to relish the snow on their needles, decorating their great skirts like garlands.

Thranduil, their King, was walking in the woods, with young Legolas at his side. It was strange, many folk would whisper, Legolas did not look like Thranduil nor his mother, Rainiell, long gone and beloved of all. Indeed, Thranduil’s son did not feel as a son should, but no one dared whisper these things too loud for the king was enamored with his son. Legolas was a good son and kind to all, though there was a melancholy to him. Thranduil believed it was because he’d never met his mother, but young Legolas intuited it to be something more, a feeling he didn’t belong. To his best friend he had described it thusly: like the dreams that the edain describe as hazy images they couldn’t quite remember after waking. To an elf this was strange as their dreams were vivid and more than random images. Indeed, Legolas kept a lot to himself, never mentioning to his family, to his father, how he didn’t feel the connection to them that others described. He’d never felt that line to his father that was so common to the child-parent relationship of an elf. He was terrified that he could not bring himself to grieve at his mother Rainiel’s gravesite.

Even more strange was the fact that he was compelled to visit the memorial site of another, someone entirely unrelated to him. He would visit the memorial for this woman often and feel at peace there. There was one time when Lotórie, who was once the royal midwife, happened upon him at the memorial site. The color had drained from her face and it seemed Lotórie herself was close to death when she saw Legolas there.

“Boy, what are you doing here?” she demanded, anger coloring her voice. This was most strange to Legolas.

“Do I need permission to visit the memorials of my people?” Legolas retorted, his voice calm as was his manner.

Lotórie bit her lip. She said nothing, though it was obvious to Legolas she was choosing her next words carefully. After a moment, she cleared her throat and spoke, “Apologies my lord. I am not used to others visiting my brother’s wife’s memorial.” Lotórie smiled sweetly at Legolas, “If you do not mind, my lord, I would like some time alone with her memory to share some words.” She looked down to the ground, seemingly contrite.

“Understood,” the young Legolas responded, though he was not convinced. He turned and left, though he surreptitiously glanced back and discovered Lotórie looking after him with a look of horror! Noticing Legolas glancing back, she hastily turned her back to the retreating Legolas. That was certainly strange, Legolas concluded.

Lotórie was shaking, tears streaming down her face. She was relieved that Legolas had left, but also terrified that he had been at Ithilwen's memorial. At least if someone saw her they’d think she was grieving for her sister by marriage. _Does he know?_ her thoughts raced. _He senses something. You fool!_ she chastised herself. _How could you think you could manage such a terrible lie!_ Lotórie fell to the ground crying on her sister in law's memorial, a beautiful collection of dense and low lying flowers, sweet and fragrant to the touch. “Forgive me, Ithilwen, forgive me for my sin!”

)()()()(

Long ago, when Thranduil’s wife Rainiel died in childbirth, so too had their son, Legolas, or so Lotórie first thought. In the same hour, her own sister by marriage, Ithilwen too, died in childbirth. Lotórie was tending both the King's wife and her sister in nearby rooms. Ithilwen’s husband, Lotórie's brother, was not present for he had been wounded patrolling the east bite. Thus tragedy and sorrow preceded Ithinlwen's labor. While Thranduil grieved the loss of his wife, Lotórie took the stillborn prince with her to tend her sister by marriage, and attempted to massage life into the body of Thranduil's son. She worked hard and vigorously but the baby would not respond. In Ithilwen’s room, Lotórie found her sister bleeding too much. The attending midwife did not know how to proceed for such complications were rare. There was evil afoot in the wood. But Ithilwen’s baby was born with life, though the little boy clung to it by a thread.

“Here,” Lotórie called to the other midwife, “attend to the babies. Work on them to keep them alive.” The attending took the babies and laid them together. Both seemed to have some life, though Lotórie had not noticed the sliver of life that crept into the prince's body, for her attention was now on saving her sister. Lotórie could not stop the bleeding. It was too much and her sister slipped away, until her hold on life was lost. “No!” Lotórie cried out. 

As Ithilwen died, the attending called out, “Help me!” The babies were dying. Some strange magic was afoot, sucking the life away from these most vulnerable elves. 

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Lotórie ran to the babies. They were still bloodied and covered with vernix. They were nearly indistinguishable but for the length of Legolas, Thranduil and Rianiel’s son. The prince was lifeless, but the other baby clung to life. “Prepare Ithilwen,” she spoke through sobs. The attendant, also crying, called for help from outside the room to clean the body.

Both were startled by the wailing of Thranduil. It was a howl. There was so much pain in it. It was unbearable. It was in this moment that Lotórie made a choice. If her sister’s baby survived she would present it to Thranduil as his own. She was not thinking. Her thoughts were clouded by grief; Lotórie was stunned by the unimaginable evil that claimed both women and perhaps both children. The whole of the Wood could feel the encroaching darkness, like a snake that slithered into the stone halls of the cavernous keep. The old ones were working hard in every corner of the Wood, calling on wood magic, chanting incantations and drawing from the roots of the trees that were woven into the stone hall of the cavernous palace.

Lotórie worked on the babies, her efforts supported by the green magic. She felt life ebb from her fingers and into the bodies. Buoyed by the response, she started singing, finding their life songs, but they seemed strange and distant, too far away! Her sister’s son began responding, but as his song grew, the prince’s song grew quieter. Feverishly Lotórie sang, willing both to survive, but Legolas’ song was lost. She could not find it. As his song ended, her sister’s son’s song announced itself into the world, the piercing cry of a newborn! The King and Queen’s son was dead. Decision made, Lotórie tenderly laid the baby on her sister’s womb. She took the crying baby to the King, following the wailing of her King. It grew louder until she was outside his room.

“My lord,” she announced, her voice shaky. “Your son.”

Thranduil looked up. His eyes were red from crying and the blood was drained from his face. Lotórie was afraid that she would too lose Thranduil, but now she had a son to save him, keep him tethered in life. “My son!” he cried out. “He’s survived!” Thranduil believed him dead too, for the baby that was born was lifeless, but now here was his son, crying loudly, seeking his mother. It was miraculous.

“Yes,” Lotórie assured her king. “Your son has survived.” 

Taking the baby into his arms, the king curled up next to his dead wife with Legolas. The child quieted. Lotórie sent after a wet nurse, though rarely needed, now was the time for one. The other midwife rushed to Lotórie's side with a bottle of goats milk and a dropper. Lotórie sighed and steeled herself to return to the king’s side. Quietly and as unobtrusively as possible, she stood next to the bed. She indicated for Thranduil to hold the baby so she could place a few drops in his mouth. “Only for a few hours until we can find a wet nurse,” she shared with the king.

Thranduil shook his head. “Let me,” he insisted. “I will call for you if Legolas needs you.”

Lotórie bowed her head and left the King’s room. She leaned on the other side of the door, overwhelmed with emotion and dread. After a moment she made her way to Ithilwen’s room. Inside she cried at Ithilwen’s side. She had no family here. They were all located in the deeper parts of the forest, at least a day’s ride. She needed to prepare her sister’s body. But Faelon, her brother needed to see her too, his wife, but he was in a deep, healing sleep. _He will need to see his son too_ , Lotórie reminded herself for she had given Thranduil her brother’s son in a move that would prove to be her damnation.

Word ran rampant in the wood elf home that something dark had stolen the lives of those mothers, and sadly that of the Ithilwien and Faelon’s son. Ithilwen’s body, with her baby nestled in her arms, was wrapped in a woolen weaving. The baby’s little body was secured in its mother’s arms, her hair covering the tiny body. Their bodies were carried quickly out from the cave and into the forest to be laid out in a beech grove, an enchanted magical place where the veil between the living and dead was said to be thin. Upon the ground and a bed of flowers, Ithilwen’s body was laid. Here, at last she would lay for many days, until Faelon could come say good bye to her and his son. Lotórie, her only family, would stand vigil, along with Lotórie’s parents, though wracked by guilt, Lotórie had insisted she alone would stand at Ithilwen's side. The dead could not speak, Lotórie, chided herself, but nevertheless, she was haunted by a what if?

And a what if did materialize for in the night of the next day she heard the soft cries of a baby!

)()()()(

At Ithilwen’s memorial, the very same place Ithilwen's body lay in wake so many years ago, Lotórie heard a voice in her head, not her own, like a distant whisper: _It is Faelon you should seek forgiveness from._ Lotórie let out a stifled scream. “Who is there?” she called out standing up to look around, thinking that Legolas was taunting her, but she could not see anyone. The whisper started again. This time she was sure it was some sort of mindspeak. Though she’d heard of it, she was not familiar with it as it was not a practice nor gift found in her family. _Seek forgiveness!_ the voice announced, more firmly, yet something of its texture revealed its distance. “No!” Lotórie cried out. So many years ago she had switched her nephew and Prince Legolas at birth, thinking Legolas dead, but he had survived, and her nephew had grown believing himself to be the Prince. But now it seemed, perhaps this Legolas, her nephew, knew different.

It was a stupid choice she had made for if she had stopped to think, in those desperate moments, she would have remembered of the unique bond parents have with their children. And that Legolas’ bond with Thranduil was missing had been an issue of much grief for Thranduil when Legolas was a child. Thranduil blamed it on the death of his wife. Indeed many of the sage could only guess as to why. Perhaps the evil that had snaked its way into the keep had devoured a part of his spirit after all. Thranduil had grown content in time, forging a new bond with his son, and though many grew suspicisou, they said nothing for they knew the cost to take away the son Thranduil believed to be his. Lotórie had grown more comfortable as time passed from that fateful moment, the terrible choice she made receding as a memory. But now it all threatened to collapse on her.

Lotórie wondered, what if the real Legolas was encountering the same questions? She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. Lotórie had stolen the baby away the night she heard him cry. She acted rashly and without thinking. Truly, her initial choice to exchange the babies, left her not other choices, she believed. So her decisions were, as a result, a cascading series of dismal choices. She took the babe to a dwelling she knew that was away from others. She hid the baby and its cries were still weak so as not to alert anyone. Lotórie was not evil. She sought the baby sustenance, returning to the castle and stealing away bottled breast milk from the King’s son’s wet-nurse. In this way true Legolas survived.

Yet, Lotórie's choice to do this created more sorrow and heartache. The elves believed that a wild animal had stolen the dead baby away from Ithilwen’s arms and were even more despondent. Unwilling to face Faelon, Lotórie feigned a desire to visit Ithilwen’s family as a means of escape and removing the baby from the wood. Thranduil’s second, Erutunín insisted she needed at least another elf to escort her, but Lotórie managed to sneak away, with baby in tow. Traveling quickly she made her way to the Old Forest Road, and from there she joined a caravan of wood elves traveling to trade to the old Ford. To them she was just another elf with a small child making her way to Rivendell to visit relatives, though they were curious why she travelled alone. She made many mistakes like this that left stories, that left whispers.

Eventually she spotted a party of elves from Rivendell, obviously scouts. Guessing their movements, she left the baby on what she expected their path would be. She prayed no wild animal would take it, scouted the area making sure none was near, but it was still a risk to leave the baby for she could not be too close or they would sense her. Destiny again, was on the child’s side for the weary group found the baby and looked as long as they could for the parents. They believed that perhaps the parents had been waylaid by the goblins that were venturing back out into the open, and somehow the baby was either left or unnoticed by the marauders. There was a mark of darkness upon the child, so strange for an elf. The leader decided they would take it with them to Rivendell and to Elrond to discover if this was new magic.

Lotórie did indeed make it to Ithilwen’s home in the forest where she joined in the mourning there. They had believed her taken by spiders and she led them to believe that this was an almost, but she had evaded and survived. Lotórie admitted she was not thinking when she left without an escort, but her heart and head were just so lost to mourning that she acted rashly, so she shared with those that questioned her. This was understandable, they all reasoned, for she too suffered these losses. Lotórie was thus present when Ithilwen’s body was returned to her family's home in the wood. It was here Lotórie was reunited with her brother Faelon and they grieved together. Indeed, Lotórie sacrificed her brother for her own security. He never quite came back from it, survived this barely. Faelon’s fate was cruel: to be woken only to find your wife and child dead. He became an elf with a single purpose to rid Mirkwood of all its evil and in this way became one of Thranduil’s most decorated warriors, but at such cost.

)()()()(

The real Legolas toiled away in Rivendell, living a humble childhood in the home of Laurenor and his wife Amdirlain. In a twist of fortune, Laurenor was the scout that initially recovered Legolas. Though other elves shunned the baby for the darkness that clung to him, Laurenor was immediately taken by the baby: something about its tenacity to survive struck him. It had been the best choice he ever made, Laurenor believed. Elrond himself declared the child as such, admitting that while there was darkness to the baby, the little one had somehow managed to outwit it. Elrond had said to Laurenor then: “This baby’s song is unique, something of the wood, though there is something that is also of here.” Word had been sent out looking for parents, from Lothlorien to the woodland realm, but nothing could be found out. This was the strangest thing of all.

Laurenor brought the little baby home and Amdirlain too fell in love with the boy. Their children all were excited to have such a special little being in their home.

Amdirlain had told Laurenor, “That Lord Elrond has spoken thusly of our little golden haired boy and allowed us to raise him as our own, speaks to the worth he sees in you.”

Laurenor felt the same way. He was honored by Elrond’s acceptance of his request to raise the boy.

And so Legolas grew up within their house, though humble it was, and much work was there to do to support the large elven family. Amdirlain tended many of the gardens that grew the food for the House of Elrond and it was in this manner that Thranduil’s true son, named Calemir came to serve the House of Elrond.

)()()()(

“Calemir,” the mighty lord Glorfindel, called after true Legolas.

“My lord,” Calemir answered, bowing his head to his lord.

“I’ve heard your strength and skill grow with a bow.”

Calemir flushed. He loved training and learning to use a bow and arrow. “It feels as if I was born to it.”

“So many have observed,” Glorfindel smiled. “You do well to move your station from servant in Elrond’s house to a man in my companies.”

“Thank you Lord Glorfindel, though I am happy to be allowed to continue in my service to the house," Calemir replied.

“I will see you at the training grounds today,” Glorfindel shared.

Calemir smiled. “Yes my lord.” And with that Calemir went on to do his duties, until it was time to go to training. Calemir worked like this every day, long hours, sun up to sun down. Elrond noticed the work ethic of this young elf.

That he was found on a mountain pass had never been hidden from Calemir. Elrond surmised the young elf felt indebted to the family that kept him and to Elrond that allowed it. Yet Calemir also endured hardship, was shunned as a young child, his darkness apparent to all who came across him. Elrond could not blame the elves for their fear, for he too felt distraught at times by the presence of young Calemir. It was Glorfindel who’d struck a friendship with the young child, unafraid of darker things. After all he was a descendant of Finwë and though he followed Turgon to his death, he too had done dark things. It was why Glorfindel saw beyond the darkness and understood Calemir’s goodness, his soft heart, and his enduring spirit.

“Take this to Elrond’s study,” the head of the kitchen ordered Calemir.

Calemir took the plate and walked to Elrond’s study. Knocking on the door with one hand and holding the warm plate with the other, Calemir announced himself to Elrond as he had done so many times.

“Come in,” Elrond directed.

In a scene all too familiar, Calemir opened the door to find Elrond and Erestor deep in conversation studying a map.

“Thank you Calemir,” Elrond spoke, without looking up from the map.

Erestor pointed at the map. “Do we believe Thranduil’s messages that something more powerful stirs in the South?

“We do,” Elrond answered. Looking up at the approaching Calemir, Elrond noticed the blood drained from the young elf’s face.

Calemir tried to shake it off. “Your food,” he spoke, willing breath back into his body. Why he had felt like collapsing when Thranduil’s name was mentioned he did not know, but that name always stirred something in Calemir and he knew, deep down it had to do with the darkness. He’d heard how the elves of Rivendell spoke of the wood elves as dangerous and unwise. Some even saying that their King was too wild, too close to darkness. This scared Calemir for he felt in his bones that this was his home. It would explain his darkness perhaps. He’d asked his father once about these thoughts and Laurenor had insisted it was not possible for no one from the Wood had lost a child and the Wood would not lightly give up one of their own. And yet Calemir believed, perhaps the Wood had given him up, for he was especially dark.

“What troubles you,” Elrond asked taking the plate from Calemir and setting it on a large wooden table with a number of maps and letters strewn about it.

“Nothing my lord,” Calemir feigned.

Erestor watched the young elf. “It is something, though you won’t say, will you?” he teased.

Calemir laughed. though he rarely spoke with Erestor, the Noldorin lord had a way of putting him at ease.

“I take my leave,” Calemir took Erestor’s opening.

“Very well,” Elrond responded.

As quietly as he entered, Calemir left. After the door closed behind him he practically sprinted home to ready for training.

Back in the room, Erestor spoke to Elrond, “Then it bodes well that Thranduil will be here in a few days. I am surprised he has agreed to come.”

“As am I,” Elrond agreed, “We need to hear directly from him what he believes is festering in the South.”

Erestor looked at Elrond. “Calemir reminds me of Thranduil.”

Elrond looked up from a letter. “He does, doesn’t he?”

)()()()(

Calemir was ready, his bow and quiver strapped to his back. They would be hitting targets in a dense thicket of trees. Calemir’s heart raced. He could barely contain himself from running up into the trees, the very beings that had befriended him when he was a child. He was always up in them, sleeping, jumping and daydreaming. It had gotten him into trouble once or twice.

A whistle sounded sending Calemir running up a tree and into its branches. With the short bow drawn, Calemir nocked and shot arrow after arrow in the tree tops, dropping down to find targets on the floor, and swinging back up into the trees. He ran unafraid through the trees and laughed as the trees stretched out to help him in his path. That the other elves did not think to ask the trees such grace seemed a folly to him, not realizing that they simply did not possess the right song to do so, for Calemir’s song was a song of the Wood, born in relation to tree as brother. The Noldor and Sindar did not have such relations.

The last target was upon him. His arrow hit dead center. Lightly, Calemir landed on his feet, his face not betraying the joy he felt outwardly, but he was radiating with joy. This he could not hide.

It was Glorfindel himself who came to evaluate his run. Glorfindel let out a congratulatory whistle. “Only a wood elf!” he exclaimed. Calemir’s joy was immediately quashed. Glorfindel noticed the light dim in his eyes.

“Tis a complement! To be as gifted in such art as a wood elf is a feat!”

Calemir smiled, though he felt unsure of the compliment.

“No one has come close to your accuracy and speed, not ever!” Glorfindel revealed, working to bring the young man's joy back.

Calemir followed Glorfindel silently out into an open field where other elves at on the ground or sparred.

“That was great!” one young elf shouted. Another saying, “No one will beat Calemir.” Many whistled their approval. Calemir blushed. His friends rushed over to him and started talking excitedly about his run.

“We have a few runs left and then we will announce the winner of the golden bow!” Glorfindel announced before returning to the wood. 

After a few hours and time spent sparring for those that had completed their run, the final elf returned, sharing a big smile with Calemir. It was clear no one would come close to Calemir's run.

Glorfindel came into the field, quickly being surrounded by the trainees, though they were all eager to hear Calemir declared the winner. Not only because he deserved it, but because for many years he had been shunned, and they all understood now how wrong that had been. While he was different, they understood their mistake in judging a difference so negatively.

“Calemir,” Glorfindel spoke, “Not only have you won the run challenge—” the group of elves broke out into cheers, “—your time is unmatched since we started this challenge decades ago!”

Whistles and cheers grew louder.

Glorfindel raised his hand. The elves quieted. They were very attentive to Glorfindel who was not among them much so his presence was always looked forward to.

Glorfindel walked over to Calemir and handed him the golden bow. “I can think of no one more deserving,” he shared.

Calemir lifted the bow and faced his comrades. The gathered elves broke out in a chorus of ”Calemir!”

The group disbanded for the day, heading to their various homes. Glorfindel walked up to Calemir. “You have earned your rest. Go now and enjoy your break and return in a week to Elrond’s service. To training camp, return in three days.”

“Yes my lord!” Calemir exclaimed excitedly. He could help his mother tend her gardens and perhaps help tutor his younger brother and sister. He would cherish this time at home for it seemed he hardly had time to spare for his family.

“Go on,” Glorfindel pushed Calemir home.

“Thank you sir,” Calemir exclaimed, clumsily bowing and tripping over his feet, because he was so quick to get home.

Glorfindel laughed. Oh to be young and good-hearted.

)()()()(

Calemir was reluctant to return to Elrond’s house. Even more so because there were visitors from afar.

Amdirlain fussed over him, “Make sure you are presentable.”

Calemir flashed her a smile. Amdirlain sighed, “My boy you have grown into such a fine young man. We are proud of you.”

Calemir kissed his mother on the forehead. He now towered over her. “This means everything to me,” he replied, filled with the love of his adoptive mother.

“I know,” she answered. “Now go before you are late.” She watched as Calemir walked towards Elrond's home. How she wished Calemir could know his parents. It wasn't fair, she thought, that someone as kind and gentle as Calemir deserved such a fate and yet she was grateful too, to count him as her own, her son.

Calemir was soon to Elrond’s home, walking through the gates and into the courtyard that was abuzz with activity, even early in the morning. Calemir's pace quickened and his ears twitched knowing that soon enough someone would be ordering him to do something. Sure enough, he heard a “Calemir,” and before he knew it he had food tray deposited in his waiting hands to be delivered to the library where many of the important elven lords were holding a meeting.

Calemir was petrified. He was not used to being around so many important lords and ladies. Approaching the large wooden doors Calemir schooled his face and cleared his mind of unruly thoughts. A guard opened the door for him and in Calemir went in. He had no way to know that something was waiting for him on the other side would change his life forever.

Erestor stood up, “Thank you Calemir, over here.”

Calemir followed and was about to set the tray down when he caught the eyes of an elf across the table. The bluest eyes, so familiar. Hair of gold, much like his own. Staring back at Calemir was what seemed a reflection of himself, but more regal, tall, and proud. The stranger's song announced itself. It was an instant rush. The elf’s song merged with Calemir's, the melodies were wrapped up in a frenzy, as if two lost souls finding each other after much time and distance. Calemir tripped but he managed to catch the tray, allowing only a few contents to be disturbed. Indeed, Erestor helped catch Calemir though Calemir did not notice Erestor's hands on his back.

The sound of a chair falling behind the elf with the blond hair, crowned by a garland of living green things resounded with a thud. The drink the stranger had in front of him was on the floor, the glass shattered.

The two elves looked at each other and stole each other’s breath. They were under a spell, their songs, consuming them, joining, desperate, and angry.

What was going on? Calemir’s heart threatened to burst. He put his hand over his ears to stop the madness and cried out for it to halt!

Thranduil fell back and was caught by the wizard Mithrandir. “What is this?!” Thranduil cried out, demanding to know what was afoul. Was this some sort of cruel test set upon him by Elrond? Before Thranduil stood a version of himself. Thranduil saw himself reflected back as a youth. “Mithrandir, Elrond, is this your doing? Are you playing with time?” Thranduil demanded, his voice shaking.

“I am not,” Mithrandir answered, his face twisted with wizardly concern. “Elrond?” Mithrandir astutely questioned, sensing the song that tied Thranduil and Calemir was strong, of the same line. “Who is this young man?”

"I am as shocked as you, Thranduil," Elrond answered. Elrond too heard the same ancestral song in Calemir and Thranduil. This could only mean one thing and the horror of what that held, the coming of Calemir to Rivendell, began to fall into place. “May I?” Elrong asked Calemir who was glancing wildly about the room, his breathing shallow. Elrond needed to quickly determine the truth of the matter. Calemir simply glanced at Elrond. He could not answer, could not move from where he stood frozen. Elrond tentatively touched the young elf and with his other hand he indicated he wanted Thranduil’s hand.

Mithrandir took Thranduil by the shoulders, Thranduil allowing it, and circled him around the table, to stand close to Calemir. Mithrandir took Thranduil’s hand and gave it to Elrond. Thranduil, too was dumbstruck.

Elrond took both hands and the songs surged in him. These were bonds of a parent and child, clear as the light of Arien! Elrond looked up at Mithrandir. He was brooding with anger. Thranduil had been deceived! But what of the son that Thranduil did have?

“I see,” Mithrandir answered thoughtfully, the images Elrond shared, stored away in the wizard's mental landscape.

“What is it,” Thranduil replied shakily, a sense of knowledge beginning to take shape in him as well, as he too followed the young elf’s song to its origins. Thranduil collapsed to his knees, crying. That song. He knew that song! It was his unborn son’s song. But how? Legolas’ song was so different. Unless…

Calemir looked from Thranduil crying on the ground to Mithrandir to Elrond. Perhaps this is why the name of Thranduil caused him so much heartache. Thranduil's song was known to Calemir, familar, and comforting in a way he had never felt. It was similar to the feelings he encountered when in communion with the trees. Both produced a deep sense of well-being and yet what Calemir felt with Thranduil was more so. It was more than ancestral. Calemir could not name it. “I do not know this,” he whispered.

Elrond released Calemir’s hand and sat heavily upon his chair. “Of course you know it not, for you have not known the song of a parent.”

Calemir was stunned but Elrond’s words rang true. Erestor held onto Calemir’s swaying body. Thranduil was standing once more, unsure of what to do and say.

Mithrandir spoke, “You believed your son dead at first.”

Thranduil shook his head putting together the timeline of events. "I thought he had died. His body was taken, and, and" Thranduil struggled to revisit the memory, "he was brought back to me alive and crying!"

”I do not know what transpired or how,” Mithrandir continued, ”but you know, as we all can hear in this room, that this is your son.”

Thranduil shook his head. “And what of Legolas?” What of the son he named Legolas who was still in the wood?

Calemir wanted to run away but Erestor held him close and Elrond recovered enough to tend him. “Listen,” Elrond urged for the story was revealing itself.

“I love him, but his song…” Thranduil continued.

“His song was not your son’s song,” Mithrandir finished.

Thranduil was too overcome with emotion to speak more. Mithrandir pressed him for the memories and loath was Thranduil to share them, but he did for he knew in them was an answer.

Mithrandir shed tears for he witnessed the death of Thranduil’s love though Thranduil's memories of it. “Two births,” Mithrandir whispered. “The baby you were returned was not the one your wife gave birth to.”

The room erupted with shocked gasps.

Thranduil found his anger. “I was deceived?” he cried out. “How could I not see that they were two different babies?” Thranduil for the first time dwelt on the memories of Rainiel’s death, of the son that came from her, of the son that was returned to him. Far from that grief he could see they were different. “I am more foul than whatever creature did this,” Thranduil rebuked himself.

Calemir sat quietly, shocked.

“Noooo,” Mithrandir soothed, “you were deceived. Your grief was too overwhelming then. I fear that someone believed they were helping you. Who might that be?”

“Lotórie, the midwife,” Thanduil answered his energy drained as realization dawned on him. “Her sister by marriage died in the same hour of my beloved, also giving birth. Her own son did not survive, or so I thought. I don’t understand?” Thranduil pleaded with Mithrandir.

“Indeed the shadow managed to curse your house on that night,” Mithrandir reminded Thranduil, sharing a story that all of elvendom had come to know. “How and why those babies were exchanged I cannot say, but I do have an idea for even in seeing your memory of your son born, he appeared as if one without life. A trick of the darkness that is slithering its way back.”

Elrond was stunned, “A darkness only certain powers can achieve.”

Another elf spoke. “Can we be sure?”

“No we cannot,” Elrond answered, “but was must be wary.” Elrond turned his attention to Calemir. “Legolas, they named you when you were alive in your mother’s womb. Will you allow Thranduil, your father, to take you there.”

Dazed, Calemir answered, “Father?”

Elrond was worried. “Thranduil, now,” he ordered. Thranduil wiped the tears from his eyes and hesitantly but quickly moved towards Calemir. He picked up Calemir’s hand. Thranduil was filled with his green song, the song of his little Legolas. Thranduil closed his eyes and Calemir heard his song within his mother’s womb. Heard her laughter and the tune of her own song and through her that of Thranduil's, his father’s, the very man that now held his hand.

“I _am_ of the wood,” Calemir finally spoke. Opening his eyes, he looked into the blue of his fathers. “All this time, I knew, but I feared it for there is a darkness in me too.”

“Folly!” Thranduil spoke forcefully, the images of his son's childhood in Rivendell clear and present in Thanduil's mind. “But for the prejudice of the people here you would not have been shunned,” for Thanduil knew well what life Calemir had lived, seen it in the memories Elrond shared with him of the babe found on the mountain pass. “You are strong. The dark tried to silence your song, prevent us from hearing you, but you won, my son, you won!”

Indeed, as a baby, Calemir vanquished the blackness that smothered his song, making him seem as if dead to the waking world, but his song was more powerful and the green things around him had sustained him. In fact, it was Calemir's songs that helped the other baby survive, why Lotórie detected her nephew's song strengthen while the prince's song weakened.

“I see her face,” Calemir gasped, “the woman that cared for me and left me.” Elven children had memory of the days they were born. Calemir did not. He had believed it was because of whatever horror had birthed him. He’d been right all along, but could not have conceived of the truth of it.

“Show me,” Thranduil demanded. In his mind the face of Lotórie materialized. “I knew this,” he breathed. It explained why, after the death of the women, she had left so abruptly, why she had stayed away for so long.

“Legolas,” Thranduil cried for discovering his son and betraying the other son he had given that name. Calemir melted into his father’s embrace.

“You will not betray this other son,” Mithrandir reassured him. “He too has felt your songs are not a match and will come to his name. Is there a parent yet?”

Thranduil cried more. “Indeed there is and this will be a gift.” _Oh Faelon_ , Thranduil thought to himself, such a cruel thing for him to have endured.

“I will travel back with you,” Mithrandir insisted. “I do not think you should mete out full punishment to this midwife.”

“But I will,” Thranduil roared.

“You will,” Mithrandir assured him, “and your people will demand it, but let me take her with me after you punish her.”

Thranduil growled. “You can come, but I know not yet what I will decide.”

“Much healing we have ahead.” Elrond looked to the council. “We are done for now. I think we have witnessed half of the answer we came looking for.” To Thranduil, Elrond assured, “I can help your bond find peace.

“I will welcome that,” Calemir spoke, thinking of his parents.

Erestor spoke after keeping silent, “Amdirlain and Laurenor will be so happy to know you have a family. It is all they have ever wanted for you Calemir.”

“Indeed,” Elrond shared, a sad smile on his face, “and you will be blessed with the love of two families.” It was strange, that Calemir had lost a mother so long ago, but gained one in Amdirlain. She would always be Calemir's mother.

Looking at Thranduil, “As I am sure that Legolas who will soon choose his real name will be as well.”

“I believe it will be so…” Thanduil shared, speaking hopefully and prophetically

Calemir collapsed into his father’s arms and heard the name Legolas come from his lips and thus he remembered his own name, given to him by his mother. “Father,” Calemir breathed in his smell and Thanduil held him tight in his arms.

)()()()()(

Faelon was walking to visit his wife’s grave when he heard the sweetest song from that direction. As he approached the site he found the King’s son singing to her. Faelon’s heart was stirred, a kindling of some strange kind of recognition, the kind he felt when he met kin that he had not seen for a long time. Faelon did not know the young prince. He’d avoided the young man in his short life. It was not hard to do. He only spoke to Thranduil in council and kept himself at the margins of the cave dwellings. He could not stand the fact that seeing Thranduil’s son reminded him of his own wife and son’s death.

“You sing as if you knew her,” Faelon shared, startling Legolas.

Legolas turned and looked at the famous Faelon, “Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive. I am glad she has you to sing to her.”

“It’s as if I knew her, once,” Legolas shared.

Faelon sat next to Legolas and they struck up an easy conversation. They both felt at ease in each other’s company. In fact their songs seemed to merge. And they talked this way long into the night, as if they were two long lost kin who had met after a long time.

)()()()()(

And so it would come to be that the son’s of Faelon and Thranduil were returned. For Legolas and Calemir, now known as Olorod and Legolas, they held very little bitterness in their hearts for they had known love always. As for Lotórie, her deeds were discovered and she confessed. For it, her worst punishment was losing the ties to her family. Faelon, for an age, did not wish to see her again. She took this as her punishment. Under Mithrandir’s care, though the wizard was ornery, she was taken to Lothlorien. There under the withering gaze of Galadriel she lived, though not happy, not until she sailed west and was forgiven.

As for Legolas and Thranduil you know the rest of the story. I’m afraid the true tale was too sad for the lore masters of old to share, though written it was, and here we are reading it. May all who have suffered find peace where ever they may be.

  
  



End file.
